Her head snapped back as he grabbed her by the hair. The Jacobite IV. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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